In Which There is a Dinner
by storiewriter
Summary: ...and Bentley starts to question his decision-making abilities in the face of trying to gently break the news to his father that their dinner guest is, in fact, a demon and that this demon is, in fact, the center of his father's life research and passions. How he didn't realize this wouldn't end well was beyond him. A Transcendence AU fic that directly follows "Legacies."


**A/N:** Directly follows _Legacies_ , so if you haven't read that, this won't make as much sense. A Transcendence-AU fanfic. Gravity falls belongs to Alex Hirsch, etc.

* * *

"And remember, you promised to let me tell him. When I'm ready. Not when you are, when _I'm_ ready."

Alcor shrugged, deceivingly human in appearance. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say. As long as I get to visit you in the end."

Bentley opened his mouth to politely hiss at Alcor that this was his father and he didn't want to freak him out too much when the man in question rapped on the doorframe. "Bentley? Tyrone? Are you ready for dinner?"

"Coming Dad!" Bentley hollered, dusting off his bright purple skirt and galaxy leggings. "Alcor—"

"Tyrone," Alcor drawled, grinning just a tad wider than Bentley thought human beings were capable of, his brown eyes wide in faux-innocence. "I'm not an all-powerful dream demon, I'm just a normal kid who shares lunch and MagiTech with Bentley Josh Farkas."

" _Tyrone_ , then. I was going to say that you might be more convincing as a human if you didn't have. Um. The wings."

The demon twisted around to look at his back, and a moment later they were gone. "Better?" His teeth were serrated again.

Bentley wondered exactly why he'd thought that this dinner would be a good idea.

In fact, he realized it was destined for a trainwreck the moment before they sat down and _Tyrone_ had stuck his hand out to shake hands with his father. "Nice t'meetcha, Phillip Frank Farkas! Woah, try saying _that_ one five times fast!"

"It's…nice to meet you too, Tyrone…Pines, was it?" His father sent Bentley a puzzled look that made Bentley want to invent time travel and smack his past self for ever having this idea in the first place.

"Yup!" Tyrone popped the 'p' at the end and pulled his hand out of the handshake. It hung in midair for a moment, awkwardly, and then he pulled it back to his side. "Thank you for having me over!"

"Our pleasure!" Bentley's dad said, beaming. "It's nice to know that Bentley's been making friends at his school! Come, have a seat."

"Yeah, he's a real sport!" Tyrone said, accepting the chair pulled out for him and sitting on it. Bentley was probably the only one that realized he was actually hovering a centimeter or so above the surface of the fabricated wood. "Hard finding open-minded kids his age, you know?"

There was an awkward silence, and Bentley rushed to save Alcor's fumble. "About the Alcorian Cycle! Haha, you know, with how murderous and evil he's been lately?"

His dad made a sound of realization and nodded. "Yes, I hear you know quite a bit about the subject for a young man your age! I'm quite eager to discuss that with you, but first, I must ask you how you like your patties—well done? Medium rare?"

"Patties? Patties patties patties…" Tyrone mumbled under his breath, before his eyes lit up (literally—they flashed gold and Bentley froze in his seat and glanced at his father to see if he'd noticed anything) and he exclaimed, "Oh! Hamburgers! Man, I haven't had one of those in a while—I'd like something raw and bleeding!"

Bentley, fearing for his own life but knowing the intervention was necessary, nudged Tyrone in the side. The latter started and thankfully did not rip Bentley's fingers off his hands.

"…which is what I would say if I wasn't an ordinary human who couldn't process uncooked meat so! Not bleeding?"

His dad's eyes were blurry through his finicky hologlasses, even as he lowered one of the pre-packaged patties into the saucepan. It started to sizzle.

"Tyrone is…" Bentley said, a little weakly, "such a prankster. Right?"

"I see," his dad said, tone still light. "So rare for you then, Tyrone?"

"Sure!" Alcor met Bentley's gaze. The latter, making full use of the fact that his father's back was turned, pointed at himself and then at Alcor in rapid succession. Alcor-Tyrone's only reaction was to grin sheepishly, teeth shimmering between sharp and dull.

Bentley had just raised his finger up to his mouth and was baring his teeth, finger poised to tap, when his father turned around. "Bentley, did you…want…Bentley, what are you doing?"

"Just…something caught between my teeth, Dad. Um. Medium-Well?"

This time, his dad glanced between the two of them before nodding and turning back around. Bentley restrained a sigh of relief.

"Could you get the cado and mato out of the fridge, Bentley?"

"Sure!" Bentley stood fast enough that his chair wobbled, and he nearly tripped on his way to the fridge. He swiped the door to the side and pulled out the pre-cut containers of avacado and tomato, setting them on the counter beside the fridge. "Do you want the fried rice too?"

"Yes please. So, Tyrone, are your parents old-age scholars? Your use of the word 'hamburger' was very interesting to hear in conversation."

 _Where was the fried rice?_ Bentley shoved aside a package of seaweed soup and rustled around the back of the fridge because that was not an avenue of discussion that he wanted his dad going down before he could ease him into it.

Tyrone laughed loudly, and drummed one set of fingers against the table. "Haha, um, yeah? I dunno, I guess it's just…what we always used?"

"Used?"

Bentley's hand wrapped around the container, and he pulled it out. "Dad, Thermobowl?"

His father's eyebrows raised, and he sent Bentley a glance that was far too similar to his I-know-what-you're-doing look for Bentley's personal comfort. "Where it usually is."

With a smile that felt a little too uncertain, Bentley laughed and slid behind his dad to the other side of the stove, where the Thermobowl sat on its charger. He disengaged it, dumped the fried rice in, and thumbed the lever for the lid on and set it to 'Warm'.

"Tyrone, you said that your family _used_ dated terminology?"

As casually as he could manage, Bentley leaned against the counter and did his best to keep both his father and their guest in sight.

"Yup!" Tyrone had started playing with their bread container, sliding the door back and forth by pressing the engage button. Thankfully they'd charged it last week, or they might not have had any slices to put their patties on.

"Ah." Thankfully, his dad didn't press the matter, his eyes softening a bit, and Bentley let himself relax.

He glanced up at the movement out of the corner of his eye and saw Tyrone about to stuff the entire container of bread in his mouth and no, no, Bentley did _not_ want to think about the fact that Alcor's jaw looked as though it were dislocated. Bentley caught Alcor's attention and widened his eyes, glancing at his dad and then at the box mere centimeters from Tyrone's shark-teeth.

Alcor grinned around the breadbox and if that wasn't one of the most disturbing things he'd ever seen a humanoid figure do, Bentley would willingly eat his dad's Fish-Fruit Medley the next time he made it. By the time that his father pulled Bentley's patty off the pan and onto the serving platter, the breadbox was safely on the table.

"If you don't mind me asking," His dad began, and Bentley thought that this might just be how he died—not in a ditch, strung apart by a demon, not from embarrassment at school, not even old age, but from sheer nerves every time Alcor and his dad interacted— "are your parents how you know so much about the Alcorian Myth Cycle, or is this a personal pursuit of yours?"

Tyrone glanced between Bentley and Mr. Farkas, and in that short moment Bentley could see the shit-eating grin before Tyrone donned it the moment he opened his mouth to talk. "I suppose you could say it's personal, yeah."

His dad was nodding as though he understood, but Bentley knew he really didn't because otherwise his dad would be flat out on the ground and _how was this his life_. Mr. Farkas turned around to flip the patty in the pan. "So what do you think about Gegenheimer's theories?"

"Gegen…" Tyrone's face was blank. He eventually lifted his eyes up to the ceiling. "Gegen…heimer? Who's that?"

Amazingly and worryingly enough, his father seemed to be satisfied instead of confused—even Bentley knew through second-hand exposure that Gegenheimer was a very recent, very radical mind in the field who had just published his first set of theories in some prolific ezine his dad was subscribed to. If Tyrone had been into the Alcorian Myth Cycle, then he would have known who Gegenheimer was.

"Oh, he just recently entered the field. Namely, he was analyzing the _Twin Souls_ saga in the—"

Tyrone made a disgusted noise at the table, and Bentley looked back at him. "That is an atrocity that should never have seen the light of day."

Behind Bentley, the Thermobowl pinged, and he turned to pick it up.

"I see why my son likes you," his father said, almost resignedly. "That being said, I must disagree with you; had it never seen the light of day, there would not be nearly the amount of research and open thought about Alcor the Dreambender as there is today. A great deal, yes, but not to the breadth that it is currently."

"An _atrocity_ ," Tyrone stressed, and Bentley turned back around to see that his eyes had gone gold-on-black again. Noting that his father was also turning to glance at their guest, Bentley panicked and deliberately dropped the Thermobowl.

"Oops," Bentley squeaked, half relieved he'd successfully diverted his father's attention and half terrified that he'd actually dropped such an expensive piece of technology. "I—sorry."

His father swooped down and picked up the Thermobowl, the field covering the open end thankfully still active. He ran his hands around the edges, up and down the sides, and let out a sigh of relief. "Nothing seems to be wrong—Bentley, is everything all right? You've been so jumpy all night."

"It just slipped, really!" Bentley shook his hands in reassurance. He glanced over at Tyrone and took note of his more human eyes. "I'm fine! I'm great. It's all good!"

Mr. Farkas stood and set the bowl on the table as though it might split apart the moment it touched the surface, then turned back around and set a hand on Bentley's shoulder. They were almost the same height, Bentley realized. His dad stared him in the eye, solemn, and for a moment the only noise in the kitchen was the sizzling patty in the pan.

"You can tell me anything, Benny-boy. I won't judge."

Bentley started, opened his mouth and closed it. Then he averted his gaze to the ceiling and started fiddling with the bottom of his skirt. "I-Why would you think I have something to tell you? Everything's normal, everything's fine, haha…hahaha…"

Every time Bentley looked back at his father, Mr. Farkas was just staring at him, steady and serious. Bentley caved a little, his shoulders dropping as he looked down at the floor. "Yeah, I know."

"That's good." His father patted him on the shoulder and moved back to the pan, picking up the spatula he'd set by the stove. "Thank you, Bentley."

Bentley nodded and made his way to his seat next to Tyrone. He sat down, and prayed to anybody and anything to make sure that he would be able to let his father in on the information with as little drama as possible.

For a while, it seemed to have worked. Other than a couple minor scares (Alcor sticking out a forked tongue at Bentley when quietly begged to not eat the silverware, Alcor accidentally stabbing a hole in the plastic container of sliced tomato when he picked it up to pass it to Bentley, Alcor nearly unhinging his jaw to eat his entire patty sandwich, Alcor chewing all his food with mouth smacking open and closed), they made it halfway through the meal with somewhat pleasant conversation. Bentley was just about ready to start easing his dad into the whole 'Hey, this is Alcor and I'm apparently Mizar!' thing when his father prodded Tyrone for some more conversation of the Alcorian variety.

"So, Tyrone, what do you think of Alcor's temperament as displayed not only in reality, but also within works of fiction?"

Chewing through a mouthful of fried rice, Bentley eyed Tyrone from the side and figured that the other had been more or less behaving himself, so it wouldn't be too bad if he didn't intervene immediately.

Tyrone shrugged and picked up his glass of passion-orange-guava juice. "Eh. Some get bits and pieces, a few hit it right on the dot, but most fail completely and miserably."

Bentley frowned. Something about that response felt off. He swallowed his food and glanced between his father and the demon in disguise, readying himself to speak up if necessary.

"So would you say that Dr. Minh Ngo's doctoral thesis on the public opinion of Alcor reflecting the cycles of more bloodthirsty and more benevolent behavior he seems to go through is hogwash or a valid theory?" His father remained interested but not overly invested, and Bentley relaxed a little, despite the interjection of some weird academic term. He had never heard the word 'hogwash' before.

Their guest let out an odd noise and placed his glass down on the table. A drop of pink-orange juice trickled down the side. "Minh Ngo, Minh Ngo...oh, her! Boy, she's a right _riot._ Man, I remember when she summoned me to validate some of her more obscure sources; she offered a couple centuries old family heirlooms for that. Pretty cool deal! Definitely not hogwash."

Both Bentley and his father froze, but Tyrone only laughed in reminiscence and tipped his chair back on its back legs, staring up at the ceiling. "I haven't haggled with a human like that in ages! Smart lady, really smart. Stan would've _loved_ her. You probably would have too! She's been dead a couple centuries, unfortunately."

Bentley took in his father's stunned expression, saw the pieces slowly clicking into place in his eyes, and covered his face with his hands.

"…summoned?" His father said, and that was the voice he got when he was starting to experience information overload.

"Yeah, I—" Alcor stopped speaking. The room was silent for a moment as the demon, presumably, digested what he'd just said in the context of his situation.

Bentley looked through the cracks in his fingers, really wishing that he could go back in time and slap this horrid excuse for a plan out of his past self's mind.

Alcor was looking between the two of them. "Oh. Right. I wasn't supposed to say that kind of thing. Haha. Hahaha. Um. Don't worry Philip, I don't plan on banging your kid ever."

Letting out a high-pitched whine, Bentley pushed his plate under the nearly empty container of avocado and smooshed his face into the tabletop. _Why_.

"Why would you…You're not a vam…who are you?" There was that strain in his voice that belied imminent breakdown. Bentley didn't even want to see what was happening.

"Um. I." Bentley was prodded in the shoulder. "Hey. Hey. Did you still want to tell him that you're Mizar and I'm Alcor, or should I?"

 _Why_. Bentley smacked his forehead into the table, once and again. _Why did I think this was a good idea._ On his other side, he heard his father slide out of his chair and onto the ground in a dead faint.

The prodding graduated into a sort of pushing back and forth. "Hey, your Dad just fell over and I don't know wh—ooooh. Oh."

He smacked his forehead into the table again. Why did he have to be Mizar. Why.

For a moment Alcor was silent. There was a sort of shift in the air, and then Bentley was being poked again. "Hey, do you think your Dad would mind if I just went ahead and had a raw patty? Cooked is good, but… _blood_. Blood is great."

Maybe, Bentley thought, if he smacked his head enough times, he'd forget this ever happened.


End file.
